


Figure My Heart Out

by LithiumCrystal



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Roughness, Unresolved Sexual Tension, season 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:02:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1657463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LithiumCrystal/pseuds/LithiumCrystal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>With a single frustrated breath, Grif is snapping into action; slamming a hand on the door control to shut it and then moving forward like a fucking hurricane; Simmons doesn’t have time to do a single damn thing before Grif’s hands are clamping down on his shoulders, spinning him around and all but slamming him against the nearest wall.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Simmons wonders if it's possible to die choking on your own breath.</i></p><p> </p><p>The girls are noticing Simmons. Grif reacts badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Figure My Heart Out

**Author's Note:**

> Just caught up on season 12 and felt like writing something up to date; somebody mentioned Grif being jealous of Jensen liking Simmons so much and it blossomed from there. The title is from The 1975's Heart Out, which probably makes it sound more romantic than it really is. Anyway, nice to be back; I hope you like this. :)

So.  
  
Simmons is about to royally fuck up.  
  
This is because Grif is standing in his doorway, dressed in civvies and staring at Simmons with some kind of expression that is equal parts fury and something else entirely; something that’s all heat and intensity and completely _not_ something Simmons is comfortable having directed at him.  
  
If that’s not enough indication that something is wrong, Grif’s also breathing heavily; deep exhales through his nose that are as audible as they are visible. His whole demeanour is tense and on edge and it’s making Simmons feel that way too.  Grif’s silence isn’t helping; usually he’s not afraid to run his mouth and let his acerbic comments loose without a care as to who they piss off, so naturally his silence is making Simmons decidedly twitchy.  
  
And that’s how Simmons manages to fuck things up; because instead of trusting his instincts and paying attention to the obvious warning signs, he decides to try and goad Grif into speaking. Not by saying anything himself; he’s not about to let the bastard know he’s getting to him.  
  
So as casually and uncaringly as possible, Simmons raises a single ginger eyebrow, hoping to directly communicate something akin to “what the fuck do you want, asshole?”  
  
And that’s what finally does it.  
  
With a single frustrated breath, Grif is snapping into action; slamming a hand on the door control to shut it and then moving forward like a fucking hurricane; Simmons doesn’t have time to do a single damn thing before Grif’s hands are clamping down on his shoulders, spinning him around and all but slamming him against the nearest wall.  
  
Simmons wonders if it's possible to die choking on your own breath.

He’s completely stunned by Grif’s actions; hasn't even got a clue what he’s done to provoke the other man. Grif’s breath washes hot over the back of his neck and Simmons realizes that the man is _panting_ ; his heavier bulk has Simmons totally pinned and with a rush of shock like he’s just grabbed an exposed wire, he realises for the first time just how close they are. Grif’s fucking _plastered_ across his back with his hips seated tightly against Simmons’ ass. It’s enough to nearly white out the soldier’s mind but at the same time a shameful tingle of arousal shoots straight down his spine. He’s rigid, back slightly arched from the press of Grif’s body and utterly, utterly fucking trapped.

If he could _think_ ; if he could hold onto a single line of coherent thought, Simmons might have remembered in time that his arms were still free; but any possibility of using that to his advantage quickly disappears as Grif’s broad palms slide roughly down to cover Simmons’ hands where they’re pressed to the wall, fingers interlocking with his and bringing his hands up to trap them above Simmons’ head. He wants to ask Grif what in the hell is going on, is almost able to when Grif leans in and closes his teeth around the nape of Simmons’ neck, sharp, hard and so suddenly that he can’t even begin to staunch the surprised moan that wrenches from his throat.  
  
It’s not an entirely pained sound.

“ _Fuck…_ ” Grif hisses, teeth unclenching from Simmons’ skin. It’s a sentiment the other man can share; now all the more aware of Grif’s hips pressed flush with his ass, mind reeling as he registers how fucking _hard_ Grif is. Simmons scrabbles desperately to find his voice  
  
“I- Grif-” he tries but he’s almost immediately cut off by Grif shoving his mouth against his ear

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing, Simmons?” he growls darkly and the other man feels himself shudder as Grif’s lips graze the delicate shell of his ear with each word. His eyes slam shut at the feeling and it’s really all he can do to hold on and try to remember how to fucking _breathe_. “Don’t you dare do this to me.”

Simmons really, _really_ wants to ask Grif what the hell he’s talking about, but he’s kind of hung up on the fact that his dick is starting to thicken up in his pants. It explains the dizzy sensation in his head because he’s pretty sure all the blood has been diverted south in a hurry.

Grif’s heart is hammering against his back; a rhythmic thumping Simmons' own pulse matches as Grif continues to speak; “was it all a lie, Simmons?” he breathes in a hot rush across his neck. “A fucking _act?_ ” the word is emphasized by the raw fury in his tone and the way one hand drops from atop Simmons’ and slides over his stomach, pulling him impossibly closer. “You and those girls…”  
  
And suddenly it all makes sense.  
  
It’s really not Simmons’ fault his squad is made up entirely of girls; it’s not. It’s a cruel twist of fate, really; he’d not been lying when he’d explained that talking to women made him nervous. Simmons is pretty sure anyone with working eyes and ears can see how uncomfortable they make him. Girls are scary. Girls have the capacity to be infinitely smarter and crueller than guys. Ok, so his squad _maybe_ isn’t the best example of that, but Simmons can’t stop his reaction. Considering that before Chorus the first women he’d spent any time around in years had been Carolina and _Tex_ , he’d dare anybody who'd been through that  _not_ to feel slightly nervous in the company of girls.

So. The weird thing is the squad seems to like Simmons. Like really like him. And that’s baffling. Jensen in particular seems to go out of her way to say how much she appreciates him being her captain. He doesn’t know _what_ he’s done to make them take to him, but it happened. And Simmons isn’t trying to do anything more than string coherent sentences together when he talks to the soldiers, but it seems Grif’s not taking their adoration of Simmons well.

It’s not as if he’s got a _right_ to be fucking jealous; their relationship has always been strained and even the odd times they’ve fooled around over the years were as much about getting off as they were about killing boredom on long pointless patrols. Even Simmons could justify shirking those for a perfunctory mutual handjob with his teammate, even if it meant awkwardness and not making eye-contact for the next week.

The point is they are _not_ boyfriends; they’re barely even _friends_ sometimes and the indignant thought is helping Simmons gain a measure of purchase here; he’s just about to throw some biting remark over his shoulder and tell Grif to get lost when the man makes a desperate, wounded noise and slides hot damp lips down Simmons neck.

_Fucking- **fuck.**_

Simmons can’t help the way his head falls back onto Grif’s shoulder as he mouths along his throat, all teeth and tongue and sucking hard enough that Simmons knows there will be marks. His mouth opens with a soft keening sound as Grif just fucking buries his face in Simmons’ neck and rolls his hips forward into his ass.

“ _Fuck, Simmons…_ ” Grif’s words are muffled against Simmons’ throat but there’s no hiding how fucking raw and broken he sounds. Simmons feels it like an ache in his stomach and damn him but he’s pushing his hips back and widening his stance, trying to give Grif a space to push into because he suddenly finds that he _wants_ that; oh Christ, but he wants it _bad._

“You asshole,” Grif is saying, wrenching his face from Simmons’s neck and rolling his hips forward again; he sounds utterly stricken. “You fucking… I can’t keep pretending like this” He pauses for a second, taking in a breath that sounds like a sob before his teeth press back against Simmons’ neck and he hisses; “I fucking _won’t_.”

And the worst part is that right now Simmons would give anything, _anything_ to let that happen; because maybe he’s really known all along that the reason they’re not friends or boyfriends is because they’re something different; something that is somehow _more_ but he’s never been able to find a word for it. Only now is the worst fucking time possible to be realising it; now when they’ve been thrust into a war that had nothing to do with them until their friends had been taken, where for the first time ever they’re the ones responsible for a team and so fucking far in over their heads it’s a wonder they’re not drowning in it.

Now is not, _really_ not the time for Simmons to be realising he wants this man so much closer.

Grif seems to know it too; for all Simmons ribs him for being an idiot, it’s Grif that’s pulling away; jerking his hips back from Simmons’ ass where he’d just been thrusting it out like a fucking offering. And if he hears the soft whine that Simmons gives as he steps away, for once he’s not being an asshole and pointing it out.

Simmons tries not to think about how much the loss of Grif’s heat against his back feels like having ice-cold water dumped over his head.

“This, it isn’t done” Grif’s saying and Simmons can’t remember the last time he heard that kind of resolve in his voice “we can’t, not now.” Simmons doesn’t turn; doesn’t want to watch Grif walk away. He can hear him moving across the room and the soft rustle of fabric as he straightens his clothes. The door hisses open and for a long while Simmons just stands there with his hands against the wall, completely still.  Simmons is so sure that he's left that he nearly jumps as Grif says one last thing;

“We can’t… But we _will_.”

And then he’s gone, for real this time as the door hisses shut behind him.

It takes Simmons about another thirty seconds of stillness before he’s ripping open his pants and tugging his cock out, bringing himself off in rough, desperate strokes until he comes all down the fucking wall with a choked whimper.

He slumps to the floor, and wills his heartbeat to slow down as he stares pathetically at his own spent cock where it sits softening in his lap. There are so many things Simmons wants to think about right now, so many thoughts that start in his mind only to be interrupted by the next. Most of what he keeps coming back to are Grif’s parting words;

They can’t. But they _will_.

Simmons is pretty sure Grif wasn’t just referring to sex. There’d been a definite implication that when this thing is over, when they rescue Sarge and Wash (Simmons refuses to think ‘if’ instead of ‘when’) that he and Grif are going to have a conversation. A real feelings type of conversation. It’s hard not to let it scare the shit out of him.

It’s not plausible, not really _possible_ to deny that he wants Grif; that he wants more from him than handjobs in the shade and awkwardly avoiding eye contact when they’re out of uniform. And it seems like Grif is ready to stop pretending he doesn’t want the same.

And Simmons laughs then because after aliens and Freelancers and so much other weird and horrible shit, it’s funny. It’s funny that all of this time none of it has been as scary or as difficult as trying to figure out what he feels for Dexter fucking Grif.  
  
It’s terrifying

It’s _exciting_

He’s spent a lot of time over the past weeks mulling it over in his head; why he’s here, what he’s fighting for, and the answer has always eluded him…

Simmons gets to his feet, feeling the ghost of warmth on his back and with a secret smile presses two fingers to a bruise blossoming on his neck

He thinks he’s found his answer.

 

- _End_ -


End file.
